


Stumbling

by troiing



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He expected that he would find her here, and he expected that he would find her alone.  What he did not expect is that he would find her in tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my earliest fics, and my first Teslen fic... and people actually hadn't seen it at all until very recently. A lot of it got manipulated and reused in other later fics, but after rereading this one, I realized that I'm actually incredibly pleased with it as it is. I like the way Nikola stumbles his way through trying to help her; I like their comfortable discomfort with each other. It's by no means a great fic, but it was a useful exploration of character for me, and I hope you enjoy it.

He expected that he would find her here, and he expected that he would find her alone.  What he did not expect is that he would find her in tears.

It isn’t immediately obvious; even in private, her emotional displays are kept veiled to the best of her ability, as if she’s ashamed of having the very air around her as an audience—but, poetics aside, more likely because she does not trust that her privacy will last, he thinks.  It takes him a moment, slowly, quietly closing the door behind him, to determine with certainty that she is, in fact, crying.  Her hand is already shielding her eyes, fingers and thumb outstretched toward her temples, elbow resting on the desk, and her voice is remarkably level when she utters a quick “I’m busy,” but her posture is all wrong—not to mention the tell-tale damp splotches on the papers in front of her, he notes as he strides forward.

“I said I’m busy.”

“I know.”

She spins away too quickly in her desk chair; she’s never so keen to hide her face.

“Helen.”

His voice is soft, coaxing.  All she can muster is a firm “Go away,” carefully scrubbing the tears from her eyes and cheeks.

He feels two waves of emotion simultaneously: one of guilt for intruding upon her private grief, one a surging sense of protectiveness.  He wishes he had not been privy to this affair but feels, at the same time, an overwhelming desire to help her through this.  Helen has not always been the muscle behind their operations, but she has always been their fortitude. 

“I said, go away,” she mumbles, although she knows that he will not.  The suspicion is confirmed when he rounds the desk.  She angles her face away from him, but he does not encroach upon her personal space or move in front of her; instead, he stops nearby, leaning against the desk.  “Please,” she finishes after a moment of silence, but he still doesn’t move.

“Helen.”  He’s more demanding this time, eyes on the back of her chair, willing her to turn around.  She doesn’t.  “Helen, _look at me._ ”

“Why are you still here?”

“Will you just turn around?”

Silence.

“ _Helen._ ”

After another brief pause, her foot moves along the ground in front of her.  He waits in silence, giving her time, now that she seems prepared to move.  After another long moment, her chair spins slowly around so she’s facing him, propelled by one foot.  She does not readjust her seat; her legs remain positioned haphazardly beneath her, toes trailing the ground.  She is not crying now; her eyes and cheeks are still damp and red, but she has recovered enough to make him wonder if his intrusion has made her feel the need to bury her emotions.  Even Helen needs a release, and he frowns to think that this breach of privacy might prompt her to hold something in longer than she should.  It seems unfair that she should have to bury her emotions so deeply under a stoic exterior.

And so, despite that he would greatly prefer to have never found himself in this situation in the first place, he runs his hands across the desk behind him and gazes down at her, trying to find words appropriate for the situation.  Suddenly, now that he has her attention, he’s not sure what to do.

“What do you want?” she demands, breaking him from his thoughts.

He frowns.  “Come here.”  It’s all he can think of to say, and suddenly it’s his single-minded goal to have Helen in his arms.

“Surely you have a reason for bursting into my office uninvited.”

“I said come here.”

She looks away from him, massaging her face for a moment before, planting her feet purposefully, she pushes herself to her feet.  She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him; she does as she’s commanded.  Usually, he would be pleased to win her over, but this time his frown deepens at the display of weakness; they’re both stubborn, and Helen should not give in so easily.  Nevertheless, he reaches for her, and although she flinches away, he drags her into his arms.  She gasps into his shoulder, but she does not fight him—not really, anyway.  She struggles briefly, pushes half-heartedly away from his chest with a quiet “let me go,” but he holds her fast, and all attempts cease.

“Not a chance.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I just love having your body pressed against mine,” he drawls, a certain acid to his words despite that his hold on her only tightens—fractionally, warmly.

“Nik—”

“Tell you what.  You have a good sob, and I’ll let you go.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“Oh?”

“It’s also not the Nikola I know.”  She’s grasping at the air for excuses, and her tone is far too telling.  She’s not the confident woman he knows.

“Hmm.  You’re not much the Helen I know now either, are you?”

The exchange causes her to sigh into his chest, but she stands stubbornly still for what seems to be a very long time.  Finally, she begins to relax into his arms, shallow breaths deepening as she leans into him, eventually moving her own arms around him, nestling her face against his shoulder.  She’s forgotten how it feels to be comforted, and he’s intensely aware of the awkward way she moves against him, fingers fumbling against his back, waiting for him to draw her body closer.

“Why?”

Even though she’s already asked once, the question, murmured into his chest, takes him by surprise.  He strokes her hair, and the tender gesture causes her to shift against him.  Again, he doesn’t answer.  This time, the silence fills the space between and around them, and she sinks into him, body quivering against his, finally tightening her embrace and holding him fast.  At first he is not sure if she is crying again or not; eventually, she sucks in a gasp, and suddenly her body is quaking more violently.  Still, the only sounds she makes are the occasional heavy breaths: even her sobs have learned the value of silence.  The way she pulls herself closer, fingers clenched against him, a measure of dampness crawling across his shirt, informs him that her tears have, again, won her over.

She cries until she has exhausted both tears and energy, and once she has done so she remains pressed against him until Nikola breaks the embrace.  She is not ready, but she drops her arms anyway, turning swiftly away from him.  “Thank you,” she whispers, because he has done the best he can, and more than she could ask of most.  A noncommittal sound proves he’s lost his confidence again.


End file.
